STANDARD DISCLAIMERS:  They ain't mine, and if their owner 
knew what I was doing with `em, he'd probably have a coronary. 
No profits made, etc., etc., so hopefully he won't sue me when 
he recovers.

This takes place just a little before the beginning of Season Five 
of "Law & Order".  Send comments to trigfish@yahoo.com.  I 
love  feedback of all kinds--even the "Ewww, that's gross!" kind.

And just in case it hasn't already been made abundantly clear, 
this is *slash*.  So, we're talking M/M NC-17 here. If that's not 
your dish, turn back now!  Last warning...OK, here we go!

**************************************************

                               New York Rain
                               =============

He could tell it was going to be a bad night.

Since he dragged himself through his apartment door, 
exhausted from another 18 hour day, he'd been restless and 
irritable.  His clothes itched.  His scalp prickled.  He couldn't sit 
still long enough to eat.  Shadows jumped and swayed in the 
periphery of his vision, making him start every few seconds, and 
the steady rain pelting against the window was causing a steady 
throb between his eyes.  He knew sleep would be a wistful 
dream tonight.

He tried pumping weights.  Then, he tried watching TV.  Then, 
music. The shadows still pressed against him.  Finally, when he 
started thinking fondly about the six-pack in his fridge, he knew 
he was skirting the edge.  There was only one thing that could 
help now.  Tearing off the scratching clothes, he threw on his old 
Academy sweats, hunted down his runners, and ventured out 
into the cold fall rain.

He started off at a near sprint, pushing his body ruthlessly into a 
full run.  His muscles protested, cramped, then stretched and 
accomodated to his demands.  Icy water fell in a sheet, soaking 
through the heavy cotton of his sweats in seconds, plastering 
the fabric to his skin.  He could barely see through the rain, the 
moon struggling to hold its own in an angry black sky.  The city 
blurred and weaved around him, a patchwork of the sights and 
sounds of eight million people living in close quarters.  Slowly, it 
began to work its magic on him, working along with the burn in 
his chest and legs to push the intruding shadows away.

Eleven blocks later, he was able to slow down to a languid jog. 
The dark shadows had retreated for the time being, leaving him 
with nothing but the clean, sharp pain of muscle cramps.  He 
noted for the first time where he was--the dilapidated buildings 
around him made him realize that he'd gone the wrong way, and 
was now in one of the less savory areas of the district.

`Good thing muggers don't like rain.'

He jogged another six blocks, then crossed down the street and 
began his treck back.  Suddenly, one of the myriad of sounds 
that made up the cacophony that was New York City at night 
split away from the pack and began to make its way towards 
him. He turned towards the noise, instincts rising effortlessly to 
the fore as he spun and crouched.

A blurry shadow detached itself from the stream of traffic, edging 
towards his side of the road.   Soon, he could attach a 
description to the shadow through the rain.   Motorcycle--sleek, 
Japanese.  Rider--also sleek, and graceful as he/she 
dismounted, then crouched next to the machine's front tire.

He watched for a moment as the rider poked at the wheel, 
unable to see what the other's hands were doing while the bitter 
wind cut through his wet sweats.  Curiosity and professional 
responsibility finally won out over the urge to keep running, and 
he slowly made his way towards the figure. As he approached, 
he was able to see that the rider was still helmeted and wearing
a heavy black leather jacket and jeans.  Black gloved fingers 
were feeling the tire expertly, obviously looking for a leak.

"Need help?" 

The rider spun, leaping to his feet and into a defensive crouch in 
one smooth, impressive move. And, it was definitely a 
"he"...although slight of build, the shoulders were broad enough 
to confirm gender.

"Shit, man. You scared the hell out of me." A male voice, grainy 
and tenor.

"Sorry.  I was out for a run, and I saw you pull over."

"You're running in this weather?"

"You're riding a bike in this weather?"

The rider chuckled, a rich, pleasant sound.  "Touche.  OK, do 
you know how to patch a tire?"

"Sure.  Did you find the rip?"

"I think so.  Here."

They crouched together next to the wounded tire, arms 
intertwining as they worked to isolate the tiny tear.  He felt the 
rider's body heat hit him in a welcome wave--once he'd stopped 
running, the icy cold of the rain had permeated his body 
thoroughly.  Wet denim and cotton brushed together as they set 
the patch.  The rider pulled off his black helmet to better 
examine their handiwork, revealing that he was older than his 
voice sounded.  Grey-stippled black hair shone wetly in the 
yellow streetlight.

"Not bad.  Normally, I'd say that it would last till I get home, no 
problem.  But, I think this rain'll wash it off before I even get 
halfway there."

"Why don't you wait the rain out?  There's a bar down the block 
from here."

"Think it's still open?  It's past 3:00am."

"Oh, yeah.  Nah, it's probably closed."  He looked the rider over 
carefully again.  The jacket was nice--expensive leather, by the 
look of it.  The clothes were clean, well kept.  The bike was a 
Yamaha, probably $30, 000 plus.  The man's face was middle 
aged, thin, but good looking in a hawk-like way.  The dark eyes 
were clear.  And, he couldn't weigh more than 160 pounds.  He 
could handle him if there were any problems--probably.  "I live 
about a dozen blocks south of here. Wanna come wait out the 
rain at my place?"

Now, it was the other man's turn to regard him carefully.  He 
waited patiently as dark eyes judged him carefully, gauging the 
risk of going with a stranger in New York against the risk of 
being stranded somewhere even less pleasant when the patch 
gave out.  "OK.  Hop on.  I don't have another helmet, but if it's 
just a few blocks..."

He watched the rider swing himself onto the bike smoothly, then 
slid into place behind him.  "Hold on.  The tire's going to wobble 
something awful."

He slid his arms around the torso before him, thankful once 
again for the heat of the other man's body.  His hands, which 
had begun to numb in the cold, warmed against the slick leather 
jacket.  He had another moment to enjoy the heat seeping 
through the broad back pressed against his chest, then the bike 
roared to life, and pulled forward into the wind-driven rain.  He 
instinctively pressed closer as the wind stripped his soaked body 
quickly of all its warmth.  He shivered despite himself.

"You OK?"  The rider's helmet turned towards him, the grainy 
tenor echoing over the engine and the wind.

"Y..Yeah, just c..cold.  S'Okay," he assured as he felt the bike 
slow down.  "We're almost there.  Keep going."

By the time he saw his building, he was shaking throughout his 
whole length, and he'd lost nearly all feeling in his extremities. 
He was barely able to stutter out directions as they pulled over, 
and into the underground parking lot.  It wasn't until he moved to 
dismount that he realized that his sweats had stiffened with 
frost.  "Damn, your clothes are freezing right on you.  Here, take 
this."  The other man handed him the black jacket, then moved 
to put it on him when they both realized that he was too stiff to 
do it himself.  Immediately, the black leather radiated warmth 
across his back and chest, as if it had been storing the rider's 
heat like a battery.

"T..Thanks..s..i.it's t..this w..w..way."

In the end, he had to give his keys to the stranger, since his 
hands were no longer able to form a fist, much less turn a key. 
The man ushered him in quickly, then immediately scanned the 
apartment.

"Where's your washroom?  I'll get you some towels, if you like, 
while you change."

Unfortunately, by that point, he could no longer answer through 
his chattering teeth, much less summon up the dexterity to get 
out of his sodden clothes.  He'd have been very embarrassed, if 
he hadn't been so damned cold.

But, the rider seemed to see his problem immediately, quickly 
pulling him down the hall, opening doors till he found the 
washroom, then dragging him inside.  He watched helplessly, 
shaking from head to toe, as the stranger turned on his shower, 
then his sink on full blast.  Soon, the tiny bathroom was heavy 
with steam.  With the stranger's help, he was able to strip off the 
heavy wet cotton, letting it fall with a slap to the tiled floor. He 
flinched as scalding hot hands encircled his arms, and pulled 
him towards the shower.

"Ow!  Christ, you're hot..." 

The rider chuckled as he helped him navigate the steam-filled 
room.  "Thanks."

He started at that.  It hadn't been a response he'd expected to 
hear. He scanned the stranger again carefully across the few 
steam-filled inches that separated them.  Somewhere between 
the front door and here, the man had shed his bulky sweater, 
revealing a lean frame, wiry muscles clearly visible beneath a 
thin cotton T-shirt.  The swarthy skin flushed rosily, in part from 
the steam and in part from realization of what had just been 
implied.

"Uh, look, I didn't mean to offend..."

"None taken."  He let his tone say it all, and waited for the 
stranger's response.  He hadn't picked someone up like this 
since college, but he remembered the rules.  The ball was in the 
stranger's court now.

Dark, dark eyes pierced him from underneath a shock of 
salt-and-pepper hair, and he was forcibly reminded again of a 
raptor.  A falcon, slender and dark and far deadlier than it 
looked.  A thrill of anticipation slivered through him as the 
stranger smiled a smile that could only be categorized as 
predatory.  He couldn't suppress a slight shudder as too-hot 
fingers reached out to trace his cheekbone.  Oh, yes...this was 
exactly what he needed right now.  The dark shadows that had 
begun to creep towards him again in the freezing rain fled once 
more at this man's touch.  Maybe, he could get a couple of 
hours sleep tonight after all.

He watched, fascinated, as the stranger's lips curved into a 
sultry grin.  "I guess we both know what's going on here, right?"

He nodded, suddenly realizing that his tremors had lessened 
significantly.  "But, I'm still cold."

The stranger chuckled, a dark, warm sound that brought images 
of aged scotch to mind.  Heated hands ran down his rain slicked 
flesh, coming to rest at the hollow of his back.  "Then, let's get 
you warm."  And suddenly, the lean, hard body was pressed 
flush up against him, and his shocked gasp at the sudden heat 
was swallowed in a sweltering mouth that had come to 
surround his own.

Somehow, they made it into the shower stall, and under the 
torrent of water.  The hot water hit him like a brick wall, and he 
jumped back...right into an equally heated, and suddenly naked, 
chest.  Strong, slender arms curved around him, encompassing 
him in their warmth, and that scotch chuckle reverberated 
against his ear.

"I know it stings, but that's just because you're so damned cold. 
Stay under for a bit, and it'll stop hurting."  The words were 
punctuated by gentle kisses along the nape of his neck.  Those 
skilled hands were once again blazing trails across his skin, 
leaving sharply defined afterimages of heat along his chest.  In 
combination with the millions of tiny needle-like droplets of water 
hitting him at high pressure, the overall effect was too intense to 
endure for long.  His response was to spin in the stranger's 
embrace, and capture that overheated mouth once more. If he 
was going to drown in fire, he wouldn't go alone.

The shower stall blurred around them, steam and passion 
combining to make them deaf, dumb, and blind to anything 
beyond the tiny bubble encompassing their bodies.  They 
pressed together, waterslicked flesh slapping together and 
sliding away smoothly.  He felt the unbearable heat emanating 
from the other man's groin brush against him, then press into his 
hip in a familiar hard poker-hot shape even as the stranger's 
hand followed the path of hair across his belly down to his own 
need.  He gasped shudderingly, water quickly filling his opened 
mouth, as agile fingers slid past his now fully awake cock to the 
pendulous sac below.  Gently, they traced the orbs in their 
pouch, fingernails graphing complex designs on the 
hypersensitive, delicate skin, dancing on the edge between 
pleasure and pain.  The ovenlike mouth was fastened to the 
base of his neck, trailing fire along his collarbone, the 
dagger-sharp tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of his 
throat.  Overwhelmed by the enclosing heat and the stranger's 
expert ministrations, he surrendered, letting the other man press 
him up against the slick wall, the hard tiles a biting counterpoint 
to the hot, supple flesh moulded against him.  Kisses landed like 
tiny landmines along his sternum, then swung to his left nipple, 
which was suddenly encased in the blistering softness of the 
stranger's mouth. The powerful tongue raked across the tiny nub 
of flesh, setting afire the millions of nerve endings concentrated 
below it.  Lips and teeth fell into a rhythmic dance that had him 
heaving steadily--until, the mouth pulled away and latched onto 
his other nipple, leaving him gasping from the sudden removal 
of warmth.  From out of the nebulous haze of sensation 
surrounding him, those hot hands returned, following parallel to 
the ravenous mouth as it continued its treck down his torso. 
When a tongue thrust into his belly button moments later, he 
bucked helplessly, too startled and too aroused to control 
himself.  But, by then, the strong hands had a firm grip on his 
hips, directing their motion even as the scalding mouth burrowed 
into the thick curls between his legs.

It was too much--too good, too hot. He arched spasmically as he 
felt himself engulfed into a furnace of heat. From a distance, he 
could hear his own breathing, harsh and gasping over the roar 
of high pressure water hitting tiles.  That tongue, that same 
flaming, flexible tongue that had set his chest ablaze now curled 
sinuously around his length, fluttering against his glans one 
second, then tracing a ropy vein along the underside of his cock 
in another.  He looked down in disbelief at the kneeling man 
before him, greying head pressing rhythmically into his crotch. 
Who the hell was this guy, who rode a difficult motorcycle like a 
pro, dressed like a model for Boy London, and gave head like a 
thousand dollar hustler?

It couldn't last long--nothing that good ever did.  Too soon, he 
felt the muscles in his abdomen start to contract in a familiar 
rhythm, his balls drawing up tight against his body, readying for 
the coming deluge.  He tried to push against the shoulders on 
his hips, tried to warn the man that he was nearing the brink. 
But, the stranger just tightened his arms around his thighs, 
strong hands massaging his buttocks harshly.  There'd be marks 
on the pale skin tomorrow, and the day after.  But, for now, all 
that mattered was the way that the stranger's teeth dragged 
along his length, dancing on the border of pain again, and the 
way that his whole mouth seemed to contract and pull around 
his cock, sending waves of pressure and fire along his entire 
nervous system, carrying higher and higher.  When he finally 
crested, it was so intense that it bordered on pain.  His body 
convulsed helplessly around the kneeling man for what seemed 
like an eternity, leaving him trembling and barely able to support 
his weight.  Fortunately, he didn't have to for long.  Moments 
later, he was pressed tightly back into the tiles as the stranger's 
overheated body enveloped him once more. The fiery mouth 
locked again on his neck, sucking ferociously even as hard 
fingers bit into his back.  He felt a hard, flaming cock press 
ruthlessly into the crush of his thighs in a harsh rhythm that 
matched the hoarse grunts against his neck.  Still flying on his 
own high, he barely registered the pain as sharp teeth bit into 
the soft skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  But, he 
did feel the burning-bright wetness splash his inner thighs 
moments later when the stranger exploded and shuddered 
against him. 

They clung to each other wordlessly, dazed and exhausted. 
Finally, his trembling legs could no longer support their 
combined weights, and they slid down the tiled wall to land in a 
tangle of still-trembling limbs.  The water had become tepid, and 
its lowering temperature finally roused them as it beat down 
upon them.  He shook his head, vainly trying to clear away the 
pleasant post-coital haze, and looked up into dark, dark eyes. 
How could such a hawk like face smile so sweetly?

"You OK?"

He nodded, rubbing a hand along a slender leg, up to the hip, 
and along the smoothly muscled back.  "Much better, thanks."

That chuckle again--smooth, dark scotch.  "Anytime."  And then, 
that warm mouth descended to his lips again, gentle and 
soothing...at first. But, by the time they broke for air, they had 
both decided that maybe they weren't quite done yet.

He pulled them both to their feet, the other man leaning past him 
to shut off the water.  Immediately, its steady thrum was 
replaced by a more distant, but equally constant, patter.

"It's still raining," the stranger grinned rakishly.

He shuddered, and stepped into the other man's heat again. 
"Yup.  And, I'm still cold."

*  *  *

"What the hell are you smiling about?"

Detective Logan glanced at his partner, his smile widening a few 
centimeters.  "Do you really wanna know, Lennie?"

Detective Briscoe rolled his eyes in exasperation.  "Christ, 
Logan, you get laid at least once a week.  You usually snap out 
of it by the time you drag your ass outta bed the next morning. 
It's past noon--get over it."

Logan laughed as he held the door open for his partner, the 
sound echoing in the high ceilinged lobby of One Hogan Place. 
Nothing--not the continuous rain, not his partner's crabbiness, 
not even the fact that they were going to spend the afternoon 
once again surrounded by lawyers--could ruin his mood.  He'd 
slept four hours last night, after two hours of the hottest sex he'd 
had since his early twenties, and he'd woken up to a freshly 
brewed pot of coffee, and a phone number taped to his 
bathroom mirror, with the word "Anytime" scrawled underneath. 
He still didn't even know the guy's name, but he sure as hell 
would be calling.

"Hey, Mike!  Lennie!"  A familiar female voice filtered through the 
crowd of three piece suits around them, and Mike's smile only 
widened in recognition as he saw the slight figure bustling 
towards them.

"Hey, Kincaid!  Haven't seen you around the precinct in weeks." 
Briscoe's foul mood also lightened considerably as the ADA 
joined them.

Kincaid sighed expansively.  "Yeah, well, everything's been a 
mess since Stone left.  But, you guys'll be seeing plenty of me 
again soon."  She grimaced.

"Jeez, Claire, don't look so thrilled."  Logan grinned 
good-naturedly.

"Hey, hanging out with the two of you again is the only plus, 
believe me. You guys got your cases moved to EADA McCoy's 
office, right?"

"Yup, we're on our way to meet the new head honcho right 
now--got a doozy of a case for him, too."

"Yeah, well, along with Stone's caseload, desk, and filing 
cabinets, it seems that he also gets me." Kincaid made a face. "Schiff says the guy asked for me *personally*."

"So?" Logan couldn't help but smile at her expression of 
distaste.  "Less suspicious minds would consider that flattering, 
Claire."

"Yeah?  Well, colour me paranoid, then.  For your information, 
Mike, I seriously doubt this has anything to do with my skills in a 
courtroom.  McCoy's the only guy I know with a reputation nearly 
as bad as yours."

Briscoe laughed at that.  "That bad, huh?" 

"Let's just say that he's got three female assistants, two 
secretaries, and four colleagues' wives under his belt.  And, I get 
the feeling I'm next on the menu." 

"That's it?  Hell, he's not even close," Logan smirked, then 
laughed outright as both his friends glared at him with identical 
expressions of exasperation.

"Speaking of which, you've got *that* look, Logan," Kincaid's 
dark eyes danced, even as she regarded him sternly.

"Don't even bring it up, Claire," Briscoe cut in.  "I sure as hell 
don't want to know what he dragged home this time.  I'm 
depressed enough as it is."

"So, what are you going to do, Claire?"  Logan's levity faded 
slightly.  "You gonna be OK with this creep?"

Kincaid laughed, patting his shoulder affectionately.  "I've 
survived you, haven't I?"

"Hey, I only go where I'm wanted."

"I know, Mike--otherwise, we wouldn't be hanging out together 
on our own time.  And, it looks like McCoy is the same, despite 
what they say.  I set it out for him this morning, when we 
discussed that new case.  He took like a gentleman.  Actually, 
he seemed to be in a really good mood, also contrary to what 
everybody says.  He's supposed to be a temperamental 
hardass."

"Well, then maybe you should stop listening to everybody," 
Logan added with only a hint of self righteousness.

"Oh, yeah?  They were right about you, weren't they?" Kincaid 
giggled, then gave each cop a quick hug. "Gotta go.  I've got to 
dance for a warrant for the Gemmel case --hope Judge 
Newberry's had his afternoon tea already.  See you at 
Callaghan's tonight, Mike?"

Logan nodded even as she disappeared into the crowd, then 
turned back to his partner.  "Sheesh, this McCoy guy sounds like 
a real piece of work.  What's it going to be like to work with 
him?"

Briscoe shrugged as they entered the elevator.  "He's a lawyer. 
If he's a jerk, we'll just try to do everything through Claire."

"Yeah?  And what about Claire?"

Briscoe barely hid his grin from his partner.  Libertine as he was, 
Mike Logan still had some pretty antiquated ideas about his 
female friends' abilities to look after themselves.  "Looks like she 
already took care of it.  Kincaid's a big girl, and she can play 
hardball with the best of them.  `Sides, Schiff loves her--he'll 
keep an eye on her, now that Stone's gone."

"Yeah."  The last was said with a lot less enthusiasm than Mike 
had been showing all morning, and Briscoe glanced over at his 
partner in concern.  Sure enough, this morning's elation was 
slowly starting to erode, revealing the grim restlessness that 
Briscoe had been worrying about for weeks.

"Mike..."

Logan sighed, then shook himself visibly.  "I'm OK, Lennie. 
Really."  He grinned with some of his earlier cheer.  "So, you 
wanna hear about my night?"  They exited the elevator and 
started down the empty hall.  Briscoe groaned.  "Do I have a 
choice?"  But, inwardly, he was relieved at the return, however 
temporary, of the charming, wiseass partner he'd been missing 
for weeks.

"OK, so I go out for this jog last night..."

"Last night?  Are you nuts?  It was pouring!"

"Yeah, but that's the best part...oops, here we are.  I guess you'll 
have to wait."  Mike rapped at the door at the end of the hall. A 
badly muffled "C'min" filtered through the heavy wood.

"Great," Briscoe muttured, smiling at Logan's chuckle.

"C'mon, Lennie.  Admit it--you live vicariously through me." 
Logan opened the door and stepped through with a laugh--

--which cut off like a switch as they entered the office.  Briscoe 
took in his partner's slack-jawed face with concern.  "Mike?" 
Suddenly, movement to his right reminded him that they weren't 
alone.  He glanced over at the new EADA.

Who was wearing a similarly shocked expression on his narrow 
hawk-like face.  Lennie swiveled back and forth, wondering why 
this situation felt familiar--and, suddenly remembered when he 
and his then-wife stumbled across her secret lover at a party. 
He didn't know what it meant then, but he did now.

"Aw, shit.  Why the hell do you always do everything the hard 
way, Mike?"


The End (well, not really;)  )
October 1997